Crucible of Accord
by pennies-for-eyes
Summary: Following right after "No Quiet Man's Descent" Prosper is dead, Tallis is gone and Hawke has to get everyone home to Kirkwall, safely.  That may end up more complicated than he thought.
1. Chapter 1

**Crucible of Accord**

Hawke looked around at the numerous bodies littered across the ancient ruins. In the past he'd have promptly rifled through each and every body-coin, sound armor bits, anything of value that could be scavenged.

That had been long ago. These days he was pickier and today, it wasn't even worth the effort. Even if they did stop to plunder, they'd be hard pressed to carry it all the way back to Kirkwall without so much as decent backpacks. It was miles from the ruins back to Chateau Haine, with who knew _how_ many vengeance-minded Chevaliers between them and their horses (and the belongings they'd traveled from Kirkwall with). A return to the Keep to collect said beasts and possessions meant risking arrest. Or worse.

So it was a foot trek home with barest supplies-a week of tromping through traitorous, heavily forested, wyvern infested mountains with nothing but their weapons and the armor on their backs. Hawke didn't feel inclined to further encumber a trek already littered with difficult challenges only for money he didn't really need.

Sure, they had nothing to show for their efforts but a gaudy jeweled 'thing' of dubious worth (and a handful of post-battle aches that in Hawke's case were stubbornly lingering, even after a potion). Yes, they had a pending political debacle with Orlais when they returned. It still wasn't worth it.

Truthfully, he was just too damn knackered and angry (mostly at himself) to contemplate profiteering, or _anything_, really, that didn't include getting the bloody hell home. The headache currently crawling up the back of his neck and drilling into his skull wasn't helping.

Rarely was Hawke as aware of the passage of years as he was at that moment. The youth he'd once been-twenty three, fresh off the boat and more in need of sovereigns than a good night's rest, was a long time ago. Thirty was hardly ancient, but days like today reminded him he'd packed more than _two_ lifetimes' worth of battles into the last seven years.

Even provoked as he was, though, Hawke was never one to pass the blame when it belonged at his own feet. And if he held Tallis responsible, he had to also admit that this was his fault as much as hers. The entire debacle with the _tangentially_ Qunari elf was just a symptom of a larger issue. More than half a decade in the City of Chains and he apparently _still_ didn't have a handle on wisely picking his battles. Which was undoubtedly why he kept being swept up in blighted messes like this one.

_How could I have been so taken in..._

The only good to come of this entire venture was the absolutely mind-blowing assignation he'd had with Fenris in the gardens. They'd passed some gauntlet, sealed some final, tiny rift. _Was that only yesterday? Maker, it feels like ages ago._

Hawke trudged past the body of yet another mangled Qunari (sidestepping what _might_ have been one of its arms) and was very glad Tallis was gone-Maker take the troublesome cow. If there was any justice in the world, the Antaam would have her head for defying the Qun and he'd never have to deal with her again. It didn't help them get home any faster, but it was a comforting thought. Being as Hawke generally wasn't the petty type, it shouldn't matter what happened to Tallis, now that she was gone-but it did. This entire event was sourly engraved in his mind in big capital letters. _HER_ MESS.

Rubbing his temples, Hawke sighed, ignoring the pounding of his heartbeat thrumming behind his eyes. He needed to let it go. In mere days they'd be home-where he'd settle in, bathe for a week solid, get appallingly drunk, refuse to answer any summons for the 'Champion' and have Varric pass the word throughout the city's underbelly that Tallis was most certainly _not_ anyone he was getting mixed up with again. Not if he had any say in it. So there wasn't any use in belaboring the point or in holding onto his anger. Tallis wasn't his problem anymore.

What _was _his problem was the journey ahead of them. Profiteering aside, before departing they_ did _need to liberate a few waterskins, at least-maybe a hunting knife or two. Flint for fires would be grand and he wouldn't say no to a longbow.

Hawke was doing his level best to ignore a sudden wave of vertigo when he belatedly realized someone was speaking to him.

"I _said_ 'Copper for your thoughts'," Varric iterated, breaking into Hawke's dour musings. "Do I _really_ need to up the price, after all we've been through? Or are you gonna cut your pal a deal here?"

The words were jocular enough, but that was Varric for you. More relevant was the '_you've been a bad, bad audience_' tone and Hawke realized, chagrined, that he'd been an absentee participant to the better part of an entire conversation. He sighed, disinterested in even trying to prevaricate.

"Sorry, Varric. I'm..." _Bloody exhausted_. "...a little distracted."

Varric snorted, eyeing him speculatively. "No shit."

Conspicuously lacking in anything resembling a witty come-back, Hawke let it go, instead crouching to claim a small, blood-spattered satchel from a fallen knight...

...only to tilt perilously on the way down, nearly ending on his arse when he compensated.

_Smashing... All I need is to go arse over teakettle before the Maker and everyone besides_.

Any hopes that Varric had missed his momentary lapse were dashed by a thick hand steadying his shoulder. "Hey, Hawke, you feelin' alright?"

Hawke's answering wince had nothing to do with the headache eating away at him and everything to do with the fact that he'd always been a bit peculiar about having his weaknesses brought to attention, even amidst his closest confidants.

That, and Fenris had hearing like a bat.

True to form, before Hawke could issue an off-the-cuff smile complete with silver-tongued assurance, Fenris' head popped up smartly from where he'd been squatted low, liberating a coin pouch from one of the more intact bodies. Keen eyes seizing upon him appraisingly. "What's wrong with Hawke?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ with Hawke," Hawke announced crossly, rolling his eyes heavenward. Fenris was the center of his world, but the shirty elf was ever-so-slightly barmpot as well, and the last thing Hawke needed was his lover quietly obsessing (in his own, endearingly 'Fenris' way).

As a distraction, Hawke gestured airily at his lover's acquisition. "Enough faffing about with coin-purses. We're looting for survival gear only."

Hawke knew he was being an arse, and for no good reason either, it seemed, since Fenris immediately shot Varric an inquiring look. _Splendid._ Hawke would have preferred Fenris send him off choking on his own teeth than be worried. Of course, nothing this entire trip went as planned. Why start now?

It was obvious Hawke needed very much to get over himself before he said something truly unforgivable-or worse, pitiful. So...a little space then. Rather than suffer further scrutiny, Hawke made his way toward the edge of the promontory, ignoring the itch of being watched, settling between his shoulders.

_Hmmm..._ Right to where Prosper de Montfort had only just fallen to his death. Hawke's subconscious really_ was _a bit of a bastard.

Since he was there, Hawke knelt down to look over the edge (not too close, given his recently cocked-up coordination) He knew there would be no sign of the Orlesian nobleman. Nothing to see but a long drop.

A _very _long drop.

Hawke swallowed queasily, giving his gorge a firm lecture on the virtues of good behavior. They'd climbed a narrow, nearly nonexistent footpath to get up there and now Hawke _wasn't_ looking forward to making the descent again. Hopefully they'd find evidence that Prosper and the Qunari had taken a more civilized route up from the valley.

Soft footfalls approached and a slender hand lit upon his armored shoulder. Hawke dropped his head, wishing guiltily that whatever cloud was hanging over him would just blow over. Things between he and Fenris had been going so well, he desperately _didn't _want to spoil it. But though it was rare for him to be the out-of-sorts member of their motley herd, when he was, it was epic, and Fenris didn't deserve this. Frankly, neither did Varric.

Wanting to turn, to meet what he suspected was Fenris' uneasy regard fixed upon him, Hawke was rendered unable by simple shame. Instead he looked out over the expanse of jagged mountains the direction he imagined Kirkwall was. "Fenris... I'm sorry, love. I had no right to..."

"I've taken _no_ offense," Fenris offered quietly and Hawke hated, absolutely _hated_ the raw concern leaching into his lover's soft assurance. Deft fingers momentarily slid over Hawke's hair, a ghost of a stroke, gone almost before he noticed it. "I know you well enough. That...wasn't about me."

The unasked question was, of course, what _was_ it about.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you to explain," Fenris informed him gently.

_Alright, maybe NOT so unasked, after all._

Hawke didn't quite know how to answer. His gaze wandered toward the mouth of the narrow descent to the valley below, working fingers into the pain at the base of his head as subtly as possible. "Fenris, If I knew why I was being an arse, you'd never have been subjected to it," he smiled ruefully, finally turning to face his lover.

Fenris gusted a sigh of mild irritation and Hawke couldn't blame him. When the moment called for it (and even sometimes when it didn't) Hawke had no problem sharing how utterly and completely he adored Fenris. Anything else though... It was like yanking a Qunari by the horns.

"It's nothing," he assured, suspecting he was somehow lying but unable to offer any discernible truth. The fact was, he was just tired and in a strop. It didn't happen often, but it _did_ happen. "This... This entire event has just left a very bad taste in my mouth."

Fenris 'harumphed' wryly, and after staring intently for several seconds, departed. Only to bend aside the dwarf, whispering something to Varric. Hawke couldn't be bothered to listen in. The stout wind hauling across the promontory whistled through the ruins loud enough to obscure anything further than a few feet away. _Unless, of course, you were Fenris._

A sweeping perusal of the nearby carnage and Hawke spotted a fallen segment of ancient plinth. He made it over, melting onto the stone surface just as a wave of such aching exhaustion swept over him that staying on his feet seemed an insurmountable challenge. His thoughts wandered from pillar to post, mostly grim, and Hawke lost track of time, caught in a miserable mental haze of heat and dizziness and ache. The wind catching his crimson kerchief and dragging at his hair seemed to lose its crisp edge and he felt fairly baked within his armor. He could only assume that despite the chill mountainous weather, he'd somehow taken too much sun. It was the only thing that made sense.

Varric's hand on his shoulder stirred him finally. "Hey, you with us?" The inquiry was softer than was Varric's wont and that, too, was its own accusation.

"Of course." Hawke summoned forth a winning smile, quickly stowing his fatigue like so much embarrassingly ugly luggage. "I was just thinking what a perfect vacation spot we've discovered. Once the bodies rot and blow away, of course."

As deflections went, it was a starved, strained thing, but hopefully Varric would latch onto it anyway. It's just what they did. In times of trial, Hawke employed his infamously questionable humor, and Varric always obliged him by playing along.

"Sure, Hawke. A few urns, some fancy tents, we could hold weddings here, right Bianca?"

If Varric noticed Hawke's gratitude, he didn't mention it. "Of course, before we bring in the painters, I figured you'd want a report on more immediate concerns. We've got water skins aplenty." Whereby he handed a full one to Hawke, who gratefully took a long pull, suddenly struck by how thirsty he really was.

Varric cocked a brow at the nearly empty waterskin he received back. "We've also managed to salvage two small backpacks, a handful of potions, some dry travel goods and... Oh! An Orlesian cook-pot. At least I think it's a cook-pot. Prissy thing's enameled fit for a king to piss in."

Fenris walked up at that moment, 'prissy' pot in hand. "We...might want to wash this carefully before cooking in it."

And they were right, it really _did_ look as much like a fancy chamber pot as something to prepare food in. It had a handle though, and Hawke would take that as a good sign. "There's a river along the route and beggars can't be choosers."

With that, he hauled himself off the rock, ignoring the throbbing ache in his joints. Sitting about hadn't been wise. He'd stiffened while resting, and moving was more difficult than he cared to admit. But there was nothing for it. They had a week of travel ahead of them and he wasn't spending their first night stuck on this rise amid a rank of dead Orlesians and Qunari. By morning the smell would be revolting. "There's precious little light left to get off this blighted rock and I don't fancy falling to my death in the dark. We need a better way down than we came up."

"We scouted it out," Varric offered, businesslike. "There's what looks to be a progress approach between those pillars over there. I figure that's how they got up here in force and with charming little Leopold."

That earned a genuine grin. "Varric, you are formally my hero."

"Hawke, I thought I was already your hero."

"No, Fenris is usually my hero," Hawke thumbed toward his lover, standing there holding the patently absurd cook-pot-default scowl firmly in place and the loveliest blush beginning to dust his cheeks. _Just too sweet._

"And I am..." Varric inquired archly.

"You're usually my smartly dressed, unofficial biographer-cum-sidekick."

Varric snorted in mock-indignation. "Why Serah, I'm not sure whether I'm more offended by 'sidekick' or the idea that I'm merely _unofficially_ your biographer."

"Four words for you, Varric. '_Deep Throating in Darktown._'"

Varric froze for a moment and Fenris swallowed an incredulous squawk. "Hmmmmm. You...uh...read that, did you," Varric queried carefully.

Despite feeling like week old utter crap, Hawke grinned slyly. "Isabela brought me a copy, the ink still damp. Really Varric, where _did_ you get the idea I had that many piercings, and _there_ of all places?" Hawke made a tsking noise at his best friend.

Varric smiled. "Well, you are the Champion, after all." As if that explained anything.

"So they keep telling me. Of course, while you continue to spread such evocative rumors, and I keep having to deny them at social gatherings, I'm afraid it's 'unofficial' biographer for you."

Varric was doubtless about to assert yet again how wounded he was when Fenris stepped in close, growling. "Keep your deranged fantasies to yourself, dwarf."

It certainly wasn't the worst threat his lover could have issued, and Varric seemed more inclined to debate than concede, so Hawke let them walk ahead, the banter carrying him along.

By the time they set foot in the valley below, he was sweat-drenched and gritting his teeth against the odd ache thrumming through him in time with his heartbeat. Hawke downed yet another potion and it saw him only marginally better, taking the edge off the hurt. _It must be fatigue. What else didn't respond to healing potions?_

Hawke was beginning to think he might well be in trouble.

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They'd walked the valley, heading vaguely east for an hour before Hawke suddenly called a halt for the night. It wasn't a particularly good spot for a camp. No shelter from the elements, nor concealment from anyone hunting them. But Hawke was obviously spent, so neither he nor the dwarf contested the choice.

Varric had silently gathered tinder and was busy lighting a fire while Fenris laid out their meager food supplies, all the while eying his lover discreetly. Fenris was neither unobservant nor unintelligent, so why Hawke insisted on trying to actually _hide_ the slide of the small, ruby-bottled healing potion from his waist-belt was part of an old, frustrating puzzle.

Certainly it was more a mystery than why the man actually was spending the potion to begin with. Hawke was exceptionally fair skinned on a good day. At the moment he was verging on ghostly, a white lipped, sweating specter of his usual self.

He was very obviously unwell.

Yet, worried as Fenris was, (and he_ was very worried_, having rarely seen Hawke look so poorly without some marked wound to account for it) the question of 'unwell with what?' was less of a mystery perhaps than why didn't Hawke simply admit he was sickly to begin with. Such admissions never came easily to Fenris either, but they were lovers. And lovers were supposed to share such things, or so he presumed.

It was an old thorn in his thoughts, wondering how Hawke could give so much of himself in other ways, and yet still hide his hurts so faithfully. Fenris had long suspected Hawke and he must share in common some fatal wounding of nature. But whereas Fenris became reclusive and distant from other beings, Hawke had learned to employ his ample charisma as a shield-unfortunately turning it even upon those who were no threat.

It wasn't lost on Fenris that Hawke's stubborn refusal to unburden himself to his friends (and even his lover) was the pinnacle of hypocrisy-especially considering Hawke's tendency to remorselessly meddle in the affairs of...well...just about everyone he ever met.

It might have cultivated into a bigger issue if not for Fenris' brutal honesty with himself, in this matter at very least. He was a hypocrite too. His own frailties and fears often stayed locked in his own mind, never to be aired. And his utter lack of skill in sussing out personal matters was a handicap in reaching out to Hawke. He had no talent for unfolding the layers of his own malformed psyche, much less those of another. That and Fenris never dared call Hawke out in sheer dread that it was he himself who'd created the problem when he abandoned Hawke those many years ago. Without a doubt, Hawke had suffered in the years since, Kirkwall stripping him of almost everything it could take away, often times in crueler twists than even Fenris had ever witnessed before. But those losses were compounded upon his original sin and Fenris balked at exploring too deeply what he suspected began by his own hand. It still lay between them, unchallenged and fragile, and Fenris feared it terribly.

Therefore, checked by his own cowardice, he was hardly in a position to contest the issue. Long ago, Fenris had chosen to be neither hurt by Hawke's refusal to share the burden of his vulnerabilities, nor insulted that Hawke seemed to think he was witless enough not to notice them at all.

That road led to a sour stomach and a cold bed.

So this part, at least, was a game of waiting. Hawke would either mend from the potion he was currently pretending not to drink (and therefore never mention whatever ailed him), or if not, sooner or later would come a reluctant confession and Fenris would finally be allowed to help Hawke through whatever this sudden illness turned out to be (sooner, if Hawke's appearance was any indicator). Either way, Fenris had no power in the matter until Hawke made the choice to take him into his confidence.

Varric, on the other hand, had never learned to let things with Hawke (or anyone else) lie. For all his sermons on patience and timing, the dwarf was almost as bad about meddling as Hawke himself-if a hundred times more subtle. He didn't blatantly get involved; it was ever a hedged manipulation. Now was a prime example. Precisely _everyone_ knew Fenris didn't do companionable prying, not even with his lover. Yet there Varric was, eying him askance like Fenris was indeed supposed to do something-which in this case likely meant actually '_saying_' something.

Very much _not_ his area.

Blithely addressing the giant pink bronto in the middle of the room was Hawke's gift, not his. So Fenris did his level best to stare back at Varric with a glare that clearly announced '_You're the wordsmith, dwarf. You interrogate him_.'

Varric sighed resignedly, which was as good as announcing Fenris off the hook.

He wasn't holding his breath against the success of such a venture anyway, even in Varric's deft hands. Not that he wasn't secretly rooting for the officious dwarf. While Fenris had been gathering foodstuffs (and mental wool) Hawke had become more and more unsteady on his pins-doubtless prompting the surreptitious drinking of the potion, artless attempt as it was.

"Hawke," Varric began, uncharacteristically tentative. "I... uhm... You know... Wow, that's a nice wobble you've got there, buddy." Set-up. Attempt. Fail.

_Wordsmith, my bony brown arse._

If Fenris were the sort to give credit for effort alone he might have been even a little generously disposed toward Varric. As it was... "Oh, bloody hell, dwarf!" he snarled. "You'd think you've never strung two words together before."

Varric had a single moment to fire an impressively threatening scowl his direction before Hawke surprised them both, letting escape a strangled groan before crumpling to the ground in a loose heap.

"Hawke!" Varric's astonished cry echoed Fenris' own as they both leapt forward.

Before either of them could reach Hawke's side he was already arching and twisting sickly as convulsions overtook him.

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He's trapped in wave after wave of agony.

Certainly no stranger to pain though, some small part of Hawke wants to rationalize it-through blinding arcs of memory wants to sift for a time when he's ever been in worse pain.

He fails to find anything even close.

_Oh Maker!_

Worse than that Juggernaut's life-drain spell, worse than the time that smarmy little bloodmage used Crushing Prison... Worse than anything! A thousand hot needles were raking up his body, and underneath it, other sensations-some unnaturally crisp, some oddly muffled. The ground is hard and sharp against the back of his head, the air far colder than Hawke remembers even ice feeling. The ground... _I'm on the ground! Why am I not standing anymore?_

His jaws are locked shut, teeth grinding, spine popping, and the world tilts and flashes sickeningly, like a rope-bridge whipped about in a strong wind. Everything is wrong and Maker above, it hurts. His back is arching painfully, he can't stop it, and the feel of gravel grinding into his scalp is an actual relief from the sensation of his very bones trying to escape his flesh.

He searches for why. Doesn't understand what happened. All he can recall is the battle... Tallis walking away... The shame of having fallen _so_ hard for the pretty lie of her supposed just cause.

Someone is screaming his name, calling for him. Fenris... If something's happened to Fenris... _No!_

His head slams against the ground again and this time there's a dullness inside his skull and the coppery tang of blood. He's bitten his tongue and there's _so much _to sort out, he can't even find that one pinpoint pain.

A glint of golden hair shoved against his nose, the sharp scent of sweat and leather and fear... A terrible weight on his chest, crushing him, and the clouds floating above in the fading daylight seem closer and closer...

He can't breathe! Everything is too acute. Too hard. Too _much..._ Varric is yelling for him now. He can hear him, close. But Hawke can't seem to understand. Nothing is under his control...it never is...now so less than ever.

Darkness is coming fast and he thinks it's not a true night. The clang of his armor against stone rings above all else and then suddenly there's no fight in him. Like a broken doll in a hurricane, he's at the mercy of the tempest. But it's dying, whatever this is, and maybe he is too-swept along and buffeted by a storm that becomes less and less brutal with each moment.

A thick fingered hand forces his head back against the ground hard, and it's enough and too much all at once. He suddenly inhales and it's like the first time ever. The cold mountain air is sweet simply for _being there_. But things are fading, the sky, the ground beneath him, his name on someone's lips, the sounds of gasping, desperate breaths, the pain...

"Hold on, Hawke," he hears Varric say. He just doesn't understand what that means anym


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:** No Kind Arrival **

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

After all the times they'd jokingly tossed double-entendres at each other, the reality of hauling himself bodily across his best friend's bucking form was entirely different than even Varric's sordid imagination had conjured. Namely because doing so in an attempt to keep Hawke from thrashing himself to a pulp during the grand-daddy of all seizures really wasn't what _either_ of them had had in mind.

It turned all that much worse (something Varric had desperately hoped wasn't possible) when Hawke's gasping breaths rattled, suddenly catching in his throat. He'd prayed then, frantically ticking off every supplication he could half recall, all the while babbling reassurances he wasn't even sure Hawke could understand. It was something he hadn't done in too many years to count: Dwarven Ancestors, the Maker, various elvhan deities-anyone he could think to insult with silent petition as he forced Hawke's head to the ground, counting down seconds that each felt like hours and _hoping_ desperately that he wasn't a liar (in this one thing at least) as he promised Hawke it would be okay if he'd just damn well _breathe_.

Pinned beneath the weight of them both, Hawke's thrashing eventually began to weaken. Varric had been sure it was over then-that he was going to have to bury not one, but _two_ people on that benighted mountainside. Because sure as shit was brown, the damned elf was going to follow wherever Hawke went, probably even to the grave at this point.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. Though, Merciful Ancestors, it was a close call. Eventually Hawke sucked in a shuddering excuse for a breath, followed by another and another-each more steady than the last. The convulsions eventually lost much of their force, devolving into stomach-turningly eerie twitches that reminded Varric of the aftermath of one of Bethany's lightning spells, and as the event petered down to mere tremors, he cautiously withdrew, unable for several moments to do anything other than concentrate on collecting himself.

_"_That was..." Varric cleared his voice, starting again. "Fuck. Yep, the scariest damn thing _I've _ever seen."

Fenris didn't answer, and taking stock, Varric wondered if he looked half as horror-struck and shaken as the elf did-his shocked, owl-eyed stare brimming with confused betrayal.

Right... Because of course, how could it _not_ have been Hawke's plan all along to flail himself to matchwood in the middle of nowhere, days away from Anders?

The seizure was over now, leaving only the occasional tremor passing through Hawke. He looked broken to Varric, just sprawled there where they'd climbed off of him, like some giant discarded doll, wax-skinned and lifeless.

The only color to the washed-out features was the trace of blood at Hawke's lips, stark and obscenely bright, like some macabre apery of the over-painted cosmetics on some of the Orlesian noblewomen Varric had witnessed at the garden party. He reached out, wiped it away, hoping Hawke had only bitten his tongue.

"Hey, Broody," Varric went to nudge the elf and thought better of it at the last second. He liked his intestines right where they were, thank you, and the elf was iffy about touch even when he didn't look more than a bit shattered. "Any idea _what_ in Andraste's fuzzy arse-crack just happened?"

Fenris was mildly aglow, which never boded well unless they were ass-deep in enemies. He looked up at Varric, wide-eyed, shaking his head.

Yep. The poster boy for _'Please don't ever do that again'_.

And Varric had to agree completely. Hawke's rasping breaths were as sure a testament to life as the occasional shudder that still passed through his friend. Even so, Varric couldn't refuse the urge to strip off a glove and lay calloused fingers (that most certainly _weren't_ shaking) against his sweaty throat. The staggering beat galloping beneath Varric's touch wasn't exactly reassuring, but it was enough. For the moment.

"Don't just sit there drooling, elf. Help me roll him onto his side, in case he's sick," Varric urged.

He didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but at least it was _something_ to do, and it served to finally snap the elf out of his fugue. They were already down one sword, Fenris needed to keep it together.

Of course, Hawke _would_ pick that exact moment to offer up a lethargic bid for consciousness. (He always did have a dramatic sense of timing.)

The instant the ragged groan rattled out of Hawke's throat, Fenris roughly shoved Varric back, straddling his lover, braced on locked arms, staring down intently into Hawke's colorless face.

"Hawke! Can you hear me?"

Varric pretended not to recognize his own tightly reined panic, echoed in the elf's desperate inquiry. Instead he reached for a healing potion from their modest supply, handing it over. "Here, this ought to fix him up."

"Not likely," Fenris impatiently waved the potion away, going nearly nose to nose with Hawke, searching intently for further signs of wakefulness.

As usual the elf didn't offer an explanation, and if it had been anyone else, Varric would have said they were being purposefully enigmatic. This was Fenris though, King of Cryptic, shining capital of the land of Aloof. The only time he even resembled blabby was when there was a mage nearby needing denigrating.

"Why not?"

"It just won't!" Fenris snapped, curling his fingers tightly into the grass and gravel either side of Hawke's head. "I don't know why."

"C'mon Broody, you must have _some_ idea." Much as he loved the bratty shit, sometimes Varric really wished Fenris was a little less...laconic. "We know he was feeling like week old nug-shit after the battle. I was laying bets on busted ribs. Prosper's smelly pet rolled him more than once. If that doesn't call for a healing potion, I don't know what does."

"I only _wish_ I understood this." Fenris sighed in that frustrated, resigned way that smacked of _lover's issues_. "But you know how he is."

And Varric did. He regarded Hawke as a brother-well-actually a lot better than his _real_ brother (even when he was alive and _not_ crazy). But he'd long ago realized the fool human had a vexing habit of hiding the really important shit. It qualified under that whole_ 'alchemy of heroism_' thing. Even so, between Hawke and the tetchy elf, Varric was gonna be bald one day.

"I still don't see why you think a potion won't..."

"He drank at least two just before _this_ occurred," Fenris growled between clenched teeth, scowling accusingly at Hawke's slack face beneath him.

"Shit." This debacle just kept getting better and better. "So... What kind of injury doesn't respond to magic potions?"

"I told you, I don't _know._"

"We should start with what causes seizures." Varric's blood ran cold then. A flicker of memory... A minor attendant to the Cartographer Guild Master. Bartrand had called the sudden fit in the middle of a Guild meeting a 'falling' sickness-according to rumor, the result of a cave-in injury, poorly healed.

"Fuck. Check him for signs of a head injury."

Fenris stripped off his gauntlets and carefully explored Hawke's skull. "No knots, nor signs that he... Wait." Fenris didn't bother hiding the pinched look of anxiety as his fingers came away tinged wet with crimson.

Varric blanched. That hadn't been there after the battle. So when... _His palm, hard against Hawke's forehead as he slammed his best friend's skull to the ground, meeting the brutal force of the seizure with equal resistance. _

_Well, damn._ "Uh, _I_ may have done that, actually-When, you know, he stopped breath..."

"Indeed," the elf interjected, wiping his fingers clean in the grass. "On second thought, the potion, if you please."

_Yeah, no shit. _Varric uncorked the bottle, handing it over.

A moment later, Fenris had Hawke's head upon his knees, dribbling the potion past slack, white lips. Watching Fenris thumb-stroke Hawke's sweaty, pale cheek, whispering stunted appeals as though Varric wasn't even there-he dared anyone to say the crabby elf wasn't every bit as arse-over-elbows in love as Hawke was. And any other day, any _good _day, Varric would have risked life and limb (and innards) to tease the shit out of the tetchy elf over the sudden appearance of his much rumored 'softer side'. (Taking the piss was one of the perks of having to put up with him.)

As it was though, the intimate display just served to drive home how screwed their situation was. As literary license, a scene like that would have had the mass of Varric's readers swooning in a gooey puddle-as reality, it was oddly terrifying.

"Look Broody, we'll figure this out. Hawke's gonna be fine." Varric had no idea _how _they were going to make that particular bit of fiction a reality, but what else could he say? Giving up wasn't an option.

Hawke apparently agreed, choosing right then to make another attempt at joining them. This time bruise-colored lids fluttered to half-mast and bleary, grey eyes struggled (with limited success) to focus.

Varric could have kissed the stubborn bastard.

"Guy," Fenris breathed, not bothering to hide his utter relief. He_ did_ kiss Hawke then-softly, on the brow, a gentle benediction of such open fondness that Varric was _almost_ embarrassed to witness it (without quill and parchment in hand, that is).

"Fenris..." Hawke groaned hoarsely, blinking up at the elf. "M'on the ground?"

"Yes, you're on the ground. That's what happens when you don't..." Fenris swallowed the half-formed rebuke, shaking his head. "It's not important at the moment. Rest easy."

It spoke volumes that the elf was shielding Hawke from his usual sharp tongue, (something Hawke never minded and half the time seemed to actually enjoy). Varric immediately understood the sentiment. Kirkwall's Champion hadn't looked this bad since he'd first _become_ Champion. That initial few days after Hawke's battle with the Arishok, they'd all hovered at his bedside, unsure if he'd even live to see his accolade.

The experience had left its mark.

"Ground's not so bad, Hawke." _Not now that you aren't thrashing against it. _"Stay put for a bit while we figure this out, eh."

"Varric?" Hawke craned his head, searching. It wasn't often he witnessed his best friend genuinely confused and Varric definitely didn't care for it now.

"I'm right here. Your faithful and long-suffering _'official_' biographer."

When Hawke failed to even raise a brow at the gauntlet he'd just thrown, Varric knew for sure they were in deep trouble. Not that the seizure had left any doubt, but he'd seen Hawke so full of arrows he looked like a giant pin cushion and the man _still_ hadn't missed a chance to banter over Varric's literary stylings.

"Hawke, you realize this is utter shit, right?"

"Mmm?" Hawke's grasp on wakefulness was slipping, Varric could tell. And so could Fenris, if the elf's somewhat desperate expression was any indication.

"It's like they say in High Town, my friend. Location. Location. Location. Next time you take a nose-dive in the dirt, do us all a favor and be someplace civilized. Yeah?"

Fenris' snorted a wry endorsement as he guided Hawke's attention back to him. "Earlier... You were drinking potions. Were you hurt?"

A hesitant nod, but then nothing more.

"Where, Hawke?" Fenris urged, when no explanation followed.

"M'tired," Hawke whispered instead, eyes fluttering shut.

Varric's stomach twisted with dread as he nudged his friend. "Hey, C'mon now Hawke. Stay with us and I'll tell you a story that doesn't include you having triple guiche piercings."

No response.

Fenris patted Hawke's cheek until he stirred enough to feebly turn away from the elf's prodding, lips tightened in annoyance.

"Don' take this th'wrong way, love," Hawke mumbled hoarsely. "...but sod'ff."

Fenris quirked a tight, lopsided smirk that said nothing of actual amusement and continued to gently nudge Hawke-who faded anyway-though the faint lines of pained tension told Varric he was at least partially conscious (and hurting).

Varric pestered his friend as well, forcing a smile as Hawke struggled to give him a half-lidded, baleful glare. In the end, though, Hawke couldn't stay conscious and Varric would have given every sovereign he owned to have their resident spirit healer on hand right then.

He grabbed up a pack, rifling through its contents. "Keep at it, Broody, while I dig up a stronger potion."

Fenris nodded, lightly shoving Hawke's armored shoulder. "One might think you're becoming bone-idle in your old age."

"Stop being arsey," Hawke whispered, the faint ghost of a fond grin dancing across his washed-out features.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Varric had to laugh. "Guess he's got you pegged, elf."

"Not helpful, _dwarf_." Fenris pinned him askance with a halfhearted glare, no real heat behind the retort as he levered Hawke up, situating him across his lap, dark head resting in the crook of the elf's elbow. Fenris paused then, disconcerted, pressing the back of his fingers to Hawke's brow.

A fever? Varric's fingers finally closed around what he'd been searching for, passing one of their few stronger potions over, gauging the elf's grim expression. "How bad?"

"It's only just rising," Fenris shrugged vaguely. "But it... seems of concern. At very least he needs shelter for the night, not this." He gestured disgustedly at the open space they'd settled into.

Varric nodded and climbed to his feet, perusing the crude encampment while Fenris argued softly with Hawke, pushing the stronger potion down his throat. Even city-bred as he was, Varric knew a prepared set up, and the elf was right. This wasn't it. They'd thrown their gear down and gathered wood only because Hawke had been too weary to go any further that night. And it was a good damn thing. Varric shuddered to think what might have happened had the seizure hit while they were climbing some rise in the damned dark. All the same, their current spot was merely a stopping point-no place to wait out an unknown illness. It offered no cover from the elements and no concealment from Chevaliers (or other unfriendlies). It wasn't even remotely defensible.

One thing was for sure. They were in deep shit if Hawke wasn't up on his feet, and soon.

Merely crisp temperatures began to edge toward genuinely chilly as true nightfall descended. Varric built the fire up higher, while Fenris continued to gently ply Hawke with questions that mostly went unanswered.

"What happened?" Hawke asked at one point, blinking to clear his vision, finally looking somewhat more awake. Varric could only assume the second, stronger potion had finally helped to some degree.

"You don't remember? You had a seizure. It was..." Fenris shook his head, grappling against the unpleasant memory. "Nevermind. We're trying to figure this out."

Hawke was still unable to offer much of anything useful. "A seizure? How is that possible?"

"I wouldn't know." Fenris' nose wrinkled in something a little too close to contempt for Varric's taste. "You won't disclose..."

"Ease up, elf." Sniping wouldn't get them anywhere. "He's obviously still scrambled, and I'd bet my left nut, that before the potions he was generally beat to shit just from thrashing on the ground." Varric thought back on the force he'd put into pinning Hawke. "Maybe even a little concussed."

Varric always said Fenris could curdle fresh milk with just a look. This look, he suspected, could sour it still inside the damn cow.

Even so, it was only moments before Fenris relented, dropping his gaze and sighing. "Indeed."

"You and Varric alright?" Hawke ground out, trying (and failing) to raise his head. He shivered, teeth chattering lightly as he struggled to get upright. Fenris aborted the effort, laying a hand solidly in the center of Hawke's breast, ignoring the irritated grunt he received.

"Be still," Fenris ordered fondly. "We're unharmed."

The sad thing was, for once, Hawke actually complied, letting all resistance melt away at the elf's insistence. That, as much as anything, scared Varric. Hawke never just cooperated. If you looked up the definition of 'bloody-minded' it probably said '_See Guy Hawke for reference_'.

"So what now?" They still needed answers and as much as Varric hated to admit it, he was at a loss. Damn piss poor time to establish the precedence, too.

Narrow shoulders twitched in a tight hint of a shrug. "I suppose we go hunting," Fenris offered.

He efficiently started slipping ties from buckles, stripping off the shoulder scabbard for Hawke's giant blade. Next came the dented, scuffed breastplate and tassets. Varric had to smile at the practiced ease with which the elf accomplished divesting Hawke of his armor. Another time he'd have made notes (or off-color jokes).

"Not'n front of the dwarf, love," Hawke mumbled, quirking a wan grin, his mind apparently meandering the same road as Varric's.

_Heh. At least his sense of humor's recovering._ "Don't worry, Hawke. I don't mind the show one bit."

Fenris gave Varric another '_you're not helping' _look. "I'm only checking for injuries, you perverts."

"Too bad. But m'fine for now, Fenris. Leave off," Hawke huffed in amused exasperation.

Apparently though he'd struck a nerve with his lover. A big, sore nerve.

"Fine?" Fenris growled. "You're not '_fine_'." He roughly discarded the breastplate, nearly tossing it aside.

Fenris grabbed up Hawke's left arm plucking fiercely at revebrace ties, obviously missing the surprised anguish on Hawke's face.

Varric was a lot more observant. "Uh...elf?"

"'_Fine'_ isn't surreptitiously imbibing healing potions!" _Pluck. Pull. Pluck. Pull.  
><em>

"Fenris," Varric called sharply as Hawke squeezed his eyes shut, hissing weakly as couter and vambrace were yanked away.

"'_Fine_' isn't suddenly collapsing in a paroxystic _fit_! Fine isn't... Gah!"

Varric had the elf by the wrist, purposefully grinding bones. "You're hurting him," he said in a low, warning tone.

Lyrium tattoos flared to brilliance, but Varric held on until the words sunk in and the blue-white glow died. Narrowed green eyes sprang wide in shock at Hawke, tense with pain, what little color he had drained away.

Fenris carefully released his lover's arm. "Oh."

"Yeah, '_oh_'," Varric snapped.

"I...I didn't realize I was hurting him."

"It wasn't your fault, Love." Hawke gasped, cradling the arm in question against his chest.

Varric snorted. "Then whose fau..." _Blood. _ Fresh and bright. "Shit."

It wasn't a mortal amount by any means, but enough that the arming cote sleeve was wet with it. Varric halted just shy of reaching for the injury. Dwarves were nothing if not sharp-sighted and something strange coated the sleeve, reflecting the flickering light of the campfire. Something viscous and bile-yellow amid the blood and ruined fabric.

"Andraste's Tits, Hawke. What have you gotten yourself into this time?" _A wound that doesn't heal by magic alone... Surely even Hawke's luck wouldn't be THAT arsed. Please..._

Fenris reached for the bloodstained limb himself, when for the second time that day, Varric took his life in his hands, grabbing the elf. "Hold up."

"Unhand me, dwarf, or so help me..." Fenris turned a frankly murderous look at him.

"Wait a moment, shit-for-brains..." Varric released him and quickly scrambled to the fire, grabbing a lit branch to see by. Hawke fidgeted as he drew the make-shift torch close, illuminating the sodden sleeve. "Easy Hawke, we're just having a peek."

Fenris made another attempt. "Stop! Don't touch barehanded it, elf. Get your gauntlets, and _then_ tell me what you see."

The great thing about Fenris-aside from the fact that he existed in a perpetual state of readiness to stick his hand through somebody's vital organs (Which Varric kind of secretly loved)-was that the elf had a keen sense of when to (and sometimes _not_ to) listen. Fenris quickly donned the gauntlets again, gently taking up Hawke's arm-this time stopping the moment his lover tensed.

"My Apologies," Fenris whispered earnestly, carefully bracing the injured arm over his knee, searching closely.

"It's fine, love." Hawke groaned, missing his lover's near-flinch. Varric suspected 'fine' was going to be a sore spot for a while, not least of all because it tended to mean the exact opposite coming from Hawke's lips.

The elf's brow suddenly furrowed, a low hiss escaping Fenris. He slipped a dagger out of his belt, deftly slicing open the bloody sleeve, peeling it back from the wound.

It was...ugly.

"I see that bitch again, she dies," Fenris swore, gesturing for a waterskin as he began a cursory inspection of the wound.

Varric kind of wanted to pin her to the wall with a few dozen bolts himself. Even after two healing potions, one of them _potent_, the entire elbow was swollen and hot-looking. The edges of the wound were inflamed, the veins of Hawke's arm stood out in sharp relief, livid and dark against his too pale skin.

"Hawke. I need to clean this." Fenris regarded his lover, grim-faced. "It's...going to hurt."

Hawke shakily nodded and Varric silently took up his friend's other hand, gripping it firmly, momentarily overtaken by memories of another time when, just like now, he'd been helpless to do anything but hold on and hope Hawke did the same.

He hated that whole 'full circle' shtick life tended to throw at him.

Long, deft fingers went to work and Hawke's calloused grip suddenly tightened vice-like in Varric's. His jaw clenched, tendons raised taught, eyes squeezed shut. But he was silent except for the hiss of gasping breaths as Fenris made fast work of cleansing the burn-like wound in the soft flesh of his inner elbow, packing it with the one and only poultice they had.

Later, when this was over and everyone was back in Kirkwall, their current misadventure far behind them (and Varric had drunk himself under the table _at least_ twice)-he would sit down and recount this tale, minus all the sweat and dirt and fear. He'd paint the tale with words like 'stoic' and 'stalwart' and his audiences would eat it up, never knowing the impotent frustration of watching while the hero suffered and there was nothing to be done.

Finished with his task, Fenris cut away the remainder of the ruined sleeve, tossing it onto the fire, Hawke's arm lax across his lap. The hand still gripped in Varric's was slack as well. He glanced up at Hawke's face, not surprised by what he found. "Shit, he's out again."

Fenris stopped unrolling the bandages from the poultice kit, considering. "Let him rest for now."

As the elf wove a thick layer of linen bandage over the swollen joint, securing the poultice in place, Varric couldn't help but hope that he was wrong about what had burned through arming cote and flesh alike.

"Broody, tell me it _isn't_ what it looks like."

Fenris grunted. "What purpose would lying serve?" The words were sharp, but the look in the elf's eyes was anything but.

Varric knew preemptive grief when he saw it.

"Son of a nug-licking whore." He wanted to shoot _something_. Specifically one already very dead Orlesian Duke with a penchant for exotic pets. At this point he'd be willing to chip in for the blood magic spell to launch Prosper's ass back to this side of the void, just long enough to kill him again.

He gave the hand still grasped in his a squeeze. "We'll have to find the raw supplies to make the antidote again."

Frankly, Varric had found Tallis annoyingly posturing, so he'd let Hawke-who had a soft touch with almost every woman he'd ever met (Petrice and Meredith notwithstanding)-handle her as much as possible. Now he wished he'd paid closer attention.

"Tallis mixed up the batch we had before. I...uh...wasn't tuned in, exactly. Were you?"

Fenris made a moue of distaste at mention of the Qunari assassin as he pulled out a bedroll from the packs and spread it out nearer the fire. "Does it matter? We have no choice but to try."

"The last time it took us nearly all day to find the components and half that for the antidote to render. Hawke was _exposed_ earlier today. So if the three day rule stands, we've got two days left to do it?" If only just.

Varric shrugged. "Should be plenty of time." If the woods weren't crawling with Chevaliers, the weather held out and they didn't get eaten by any wyverns themselves.

The elf shook his head. "A victim might endure _up to_ three days. I suspect there are varying factors." Fenris stared hard at his lover, shucking his gauntlets again, gently tracing the eerie pattern of dusky veins up Hawke's arm, barely visible in the dimness as they peeked above the fresh dressing. "This, I fear, burns right into venous supply. If so, the venom is already in his blood. I don't know how much time he has."

Varric swore loudly remembering the violent convulsions. _Shit, but Hawke just never catches a break!_"Let's get him settled for the night. Then we come up with a plan."

The nudging was careful, but firm. Even so, it was a discouragingly long while before Hawke greeted Fenris with a tight-lipped, sleepy-eyed frown. The elf leaned in close, almost whispering. "Hawke, _mihi ignoscas_[**]. We're going to move you closer to the fire now. Do not help. Just let us manage it."

Hawke barely nodded.

Fourteen stone worth of broad, tall human wasn't easy to haul. In the end, he and the elf worked a blanket under Hawke, grabbing it by each corner, hefting. It was difficult, but didn't take long, and soon Hawke was settled on the bedroll Fenris had situated.

Exhausted, Varric took a long swig of water, eyeing his best friend, surprised to see thin slivers of pale grey peering back at him. "You know, Hawke-You really need to cut back a bit. Orana's been overfeeding you."

"Guh. You _didn't_ jus'go there," Hawke mumbled faintly, lips twitching.

Varric snorted, handing the water over to Fenris. "As I understand it, you humans start getting thick when you hit middle age. What are you, nearly thirty now? Might want to start cutting back." Hawke didn't quite accomplish a glower, but he tried, and Varric would take what he could get.

Fenris slid a hand under Hawke's head, lifting. "Here, drink."

"Starving me already, I see," Hawke whispered, trying on a reassuring smile that wasn't at all convincing.

He drank deeply though. Fenris set the half-drained waterskin aside, brushing his lips over Hawke's crown, whispering a promise into the less-than-kempt, black hair. "Sleep. We'll figure this out."

Shivering, Hawke drifted off in Fenris' protective hold, and if Varric hadn't been scared shitless for his best friend, he'd have been pissing himself over the literary potential of the poignant moment.

While contemplating the pros and cons of jotting down a few bare-bones notes, he passed out the dry tack they'd scavenged. It was standard soldier's fare and consisted mostly of some unnameable jerky, dried fruit and hard biscuits, but he'd had worse. In fact, it wasn't any worse than the average glop out of the Hanged Man's kitchens and at least he could tell what they were eating. It helped that both he and the elf were well past peckish. The previous night's meal had been a long time ago, the time since filled with battles and trekking and no time for a break, so even the simple tack was welcome. There wasn't much of it, however, and they ate with the tacit understanding that they'd be hunting at earliest convenience.

The meal was more than a bit sullen, the shared silence between he and Fenris heavy. The irony of it didn't escape Varric. For once, he was too caught up in his own brooding thoughts to bait the elf out of his. When their crude meal was complete, Fenris made himself busy rummaging madly through one of the backpacks, surfacing with a grunt of approval and a very crisp, clean shirt in hand, smelling heavily of lavender soap.

Obviously not off a body then.

The elf caught Varric's eye and must have seen the unformed question there. "It was in one of the packs we recovered. And we need bandages."

The elf proceeded to vent a little frustration, slashing the fine linen chemise into long, thin strips with surprising accuracy. Varric watched the systematic murder of the expensive garment for a few moments before addressing what neither of them had yet given voice to.

"If time is really that short, we need to start tonight. But I just don't see how that's possible."

The elf threw a wad of linen strips at Varric before plopping down, cross-legged, to start rolling his own batch into discrete bundles. "I want to search for the antidote components immediately. But as you say, there are...concerns."

_Concerns? Yeah, like sheer cliffs, giant spiders and getting hopelessly fucking lost. _"Well, I know I've got my list. Let's compare before we go shopping."

Fenris snorted, looking around the camp. "We need someplace defensible first. Easier said than done with Ghasts vomiting out of every cave."

"Agreed. We can't stay out in the open, not with Hawke down and needing time to mend. But we can't both leave to look either-for shelter or the ingredients. One of us will have to stay with him."

The elf just grunted yet again. Not helpful, but Varric wasn't really expecting anything more forthcoming. It was Fenris' customary response to everything from _'good morning' _to '_have you stopped bleeding yet?'_.

Varric sighed, tossing his unsorted pile of massacred shirt back at the elf. He ignored the low growl it earned him and starred up at the inky sky, a bit surprised not to see the expanse of dazzling stars he'd grown used to since traveling higher into the mountains. It was overcast, the darkness above full of ominous clouds, filtering everything but a faint impression of the moon. _Great. All we need is a cold autumn rain to make this debacle complete. _"Looks like shelter is moving up my list."

He gave the elf a meaningful look. "That doesn't change the fact that one of us stumbling around in the pitch dark, alone, in a strange wilderness... It's asking for trouble."

Thanks to Fenris' penchant for cursing in his native tongue, Varric's lexicon of Tevine invectives was pretty impressive. Even so, the elf's whispered imprecation this time was truly inspiring. And he couldn't blame him. Fenris had reluctantly been forced to agree with Varric. Even out in the open with no cover, in desperate need of every second of time they had, they were still better off staying put until daylight.

"Hawke's tough as they come, Broody. He'll hold out. You'll see."

The defeated slump to Fenris' shoulder's argued otherwise. He stowed away Varric's wadded up portion of make-shift bandages and scooted closer to Hawke, eyeing Varric askance as he situated himself. "I will stay and guard him, on the morrow-perhaps searching the nearby area for cover while you find the components to make the antidote. We'll need water soon as well."

Varric settled himself onto another stolen bedroll, peering into the darkness beyond their campfire. "Sounds good. I'll take first watch. We're probably not more than a four mile jaunt from the river at most-if I'm not lost, that is."

It went unsaid that they might well indeed be lost. Their original approach of the ruins hadn't been anything resembling planned, let alone their exhausted retreat. "I can skip over and refill the skins at dawn. One of the items we need grows near water anyway. If I see anything to shoot, I'll bring it back."

No answer came back and Varric glanced over at the elf to find him stretched out atop the covers, propped up on his elbow, stroking Hawke's sweat-damp brow. The usual, inscrutable frown was tucked away, replaced by what Varric could only label as raw ache.

"Listen Broody, we'll do this. We've been in tighter spots."

That earned him a flat glare for his effort.

"Alright, maybe not _tighter_, per se. But you can't tell me after taking down one of the original plunderers of the Golden City that Hawke doesn't seem at least a little invincible."

Fenris growled, the anger always in reserve just under the surface, flaring. "You listen too much to your own propaganda, dwarf. He's never been invincible. He's not some paper hero in your stories. He bleeds-too well and too often."

As usual, the elf was missing the damned point. "You're right. But the fact that he's human makes it all that much more incredible. Merciful Ancestors elf! I'm thinking the Maker Himself must lick Hawke's ass after all the shit he gets into and back out of. How many dragons have we killed now?"

That earned a pinched, reluctant ghost of a grin. "Too many," the elf asserted quietly.

Then Fenris' regard returned to the man himself, his glance skirting across Hawke's pale features-and Varric had to sigh at the undisguised defeat he saw in the elf's eyes.

_Ancestors preserve me...  
><em>  
>"You're giving up on him, already," Varric accused. <em>You saw the venom burn, you're just as scared as the elf, you hypocrite. <em>

"Sometimes..." Fenris paused, turning a forlorn gaze to the vague shadows beyond the camp. "Sometimes I think I've cursed him, Varric. That being with me is going to be his doom."

_Well of all the twisted, fatalistic, backwardly narcissistic crap..._ "Elf..." Varric gusted a frustrated breath. "You know, I bet you even shit out little, tiny bricks of broody crap."

Fenris offered him another 'milk curdler' look and scoffed. "I should have known better than to offer a serious discourse with you, dwarf. Bar stool gossip, drinking songs and five-copper pornographic tripe is the breadth of your philosophical range."

Varric just laughed. "Wow, look whose inner bitch is out for a stroll."

"If you've nothing constructive to offer, _little man_, then save your breath," Fenris growled.

_Little man? Little... _

"I'll let that one go on account of the fact that you've not had enough roughage lately."

Fenris opened his mouth only to snap it shut, apparently partaking of the better part of valor-letting the exchange drop, curling against Hawke's good side with a resigned sigh.

Which absolutely did NOT set Varric's conscience off on a tear. Nope. No serah. No guilt here.

Of course, Varric knew right now wasn't the best time for them to be sniping at each other. And even though Fenris was a reactionary tit at times, they were long-time friends and Varric genuinely loved the obnoxious long-eared little shit. They were both just afraid. Plus, he had to admit, he'd emsort-of/em started it.

_Well damn. Looks like I own someone an apology. _

"Broody. Fenris. Look. I didn't mean to be an ass. Just... Don't take this the wrong way, but you aren't that damn important in the grand scheme of things."

He expected the scowl, he'd even expected a perplexed look, maybe a leavening of indignation. What he didn't expect was the honest to Maker _need_. Sometimes Varric took for granted how smart the elf really was, how much he saw and how deeply he chewed on things, shut up inside that head of his. (Quiet people were like that.) He also tended to underestimate how much they _all_ listened when Hawke pledged that whatever they were currently mixed up in would work out, no matter the odds. So it was startling to suddenly realize that in the absence of their leader's steadfast assurances it was Varric's backhanded optimism Fenris was hanging onto.

_Double damn._

Well, was he a storyteller or what? "Pay Attention, elf." Fenris's head was resting against Hawke's shoulder, but the telling flick of one long ear told Varric the elf's was at least still listening. "I don't know if you realize it, but Hawke is, in some ways, officially dead. He's one the few to have fought at Ostagar and survived the day." Varric stretched his legs out, getting comfortable, his voice dropping into the smooth cadence of a bardic rhythm. This he could do. This he was master of.

"Do you know the story? He was right there-fighting at the side of King Cailan Theirin and Ferelden's corps of Grey Wardens-ground zero when the Darkspawn Horde descended. You want to talk doomed, Broody? _Those _men were doomed. They were betrayed and abandoned by Loghain MacTir, General of Ferelden's armies and the King's own father-in-law. He recalled the main body of their forces, abandoning Cailan, his small contingent of troops and the Grey Wardens all to a horrible death at the hands of the Horde. Hawke was one of those soldiers. Avaline too."

Varric spied his lone audience, satisfied to note green eyes pinning him over the rise of Hawke's chest.

"It was a massacre. The only people who _officially _survived that day were the current King, Alistair Theirin and the Hero of Ferelden. He's only talked to me about it a few times, but can you imagine? All that death, all those thousands of Darkspawn, not a live Warden left on the field."

"Then Lothering fell, the Horde he'd only _just_gotten away from falling on the place like deranged locusts. But he didn't give up-he lead his family right through the heart of Blight territory to safety." Varric steered clear of the more graphic aspects of that tale, in case some part of Hawke could hear him. "One year with Athenril and by the time he left her _service_, he had a rep the length of my arm, with more enemies than you can shake your fluffy white head at. Then there were the Templars, and cleaning up Lowtown after dark, and that bit with the Guard Captain on the take...All of that before ever meeting you."

"My point is, Fenris, you should do both yourself and Hawke a favor and stop thinking the shit he gets into has anything to do with you or your _doomed_ love. Not that it hasn't been a blast writing speculative fiction about it."

Fenris threw him a disgusted look. "Must you?"

"Yeah, actually, I must. Look Broody, It's been a shitty close to a shitty adventure. And I'm betting Rivaini's blue bandana it's gonna get a lot worse before it gets better."

Fenris mumbled something in a waspish tone.

"What was that?"

"I said let her keep the loathsome bandana. I cringe to imagine where it's been."

Varric laughed. "I'll tell her you said so just to watch her kick your ass."

"You mean 'try', don't you." Fenris settled himself under the covers and Varric added more fuel to the campfire.

"I'll wake you in a few hours. You can keep second watch, waxing all dark-horse to your broody little heart's content. In the meantime, get some rest."

And much to Varric's surprise, he did. Within minutes there was a faint, sonorous buzz coming from their pallet. The damn elf was snoring again.


End file.
